


The Rope Incident

by Plenoptic



Series: The Indecent Reign of Maestro da Vinci [4]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Anal Sex, Aphrodisiacs, Bondage, Dirty Talk, Leo's at it again, M/M, Niccolo being filthy, Orgasm Delay/Denial, PWP, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-02-14
Packaged: 2018-03-12 08:42:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3350465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Plenoptic/pseuds/Plenoptic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Machiavelli capitalizes on Leonardo's wealth of knowledge with mixed results.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Rope Incident

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ZerosGirl01](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZerosGirl01/gifts).



> The game Niccolo references if from my drabble collection, The Prince and the Fox. The chapter is titled 'Game' and doesn't really have anything to do with what goes down here.

To say that Machiavelli was pleased himself would constitute the understatement of the century. He was almost beside himself with glee, about ready to pat himself on the back. He couldn’t focus on the book in his lap; his eyes kept jumping upward, roaming the scene on his bed, heat and want coiling low and tight in his belly.

“Niccolò.”

“Hush. Don’t make me gag you.”

La Volpe huffed, biting his lower lip when a shudder wracked his body. “Niccolò, please.”

“What did I just say?”

“But—”

“No.” Machiavelli got to his feet, crossing the room and sinking down on the side of the bed, running an appreciate hand over his prize.

Volpe lay on his back, naked as the day he was born, knees drawn up and legs spread wide. Red tinged his cheeks, his breath coming in short, needy pants—symptoms of the aphrodisiac humming in his veins. His wrists were bound to his ankles, tied to the bed with lengths of rope that looped around his thighs and tethered at the bedposts. Machiavelli was more than a little pleased with his creativity; if only he could channel it into something productive, like the new draft of the contract for Caterina Sforza (additionally, damn that woman to every known corner of hell for the joy she took out of tormenting him).

“Niccolò!”

“Did you forget?” Machiavelli trailed a fingertip teasingly down the center of Volpe’s heaving chest, stopping just short of his navel. “I won our game. That means I get to do to you what I please.”

Volpe’s violet eyes flashed, tongue flicking out to wet his lips. “I’ll do whatever you want.”

“I want you to lie there and look lovely and not talk.” Machiavelli patted the older man’s hair and got to his feet, returning to his book. “At least until I’m done finding a precedent for this clause. Unless you know something about working contracts for _condotierri_ whose mothers are in outright rebellion against the pope in Rome?”

Volpe huffed an impatient whine, his hips arching desperately against friction that wasn’t there. His stiff cock bounced against his belly, leaking precum on his abdomen. Machiavelli stared at him for a moment, openly distracted, before hastily looking back down at his book. He tried not to hear the trapped thief moaning, tried not to imagine how hot he must feel, how good that hungry wet mouth would feel on his—

Machiavelli closed his eyes and drew in a slow breath, cooling the heat in his blood. Not yet. Soon, just… not yet. Denying Volpe was delicious, but denying _himself_ was—well. Who better to exert power over him than him?

Volpe’s groans increased in pitch. Machiavelli’s grey eyes flickered upward, appraising him, then returned to the page.

“What do you want?”

“Just touch me,” Volpe said, his words tumbling from his mouth in a jumble. “Just—Niccolò, anything, please—”

Anything. There was one more component to this game that Machiavelli hadn’t yet included. He didn’t quite know how Gilberto would respond. He got to his feet and strode back to the bed, bracing himself on stiff arms over the thief’s body, frowning down at him.

“You remember the word?”

“ _Tesoro_ —”

“What do you say if you want me to stop?”

“I want you to _start_!” Volpe snarled at him. “‘Apple,’ dammit, if I want you to stop it’s—” He broke off with a choked cry when Machiavelli trailed a light touch over the head of his aching member. “Fuck!”

Niccolò couldn’t help himself. His lover was so hard… he lowered his head and licked Volpe’s cock, moaning softly against him and palming his own erection, grinding into his own hand. Volpe’s hips jumped, thrusting his length against the younger man’s caressing mouth, and his little whimpers made Machiavelli’s blood ignite.

He straightened, sitting on his knees at Volpe’s side and openly rubbing the bulge in his hose, bit his lip just because he knew it would drive the thief insane. Volpe jerked against his bonds, his eyes darkening while he watched his lover touch himself.

“Niccolò…”

“Hush.”

“ _Please_ —”

Machiavelli scowled and, with the hand that wasn’t busy teasing his erection, slapped his palm against Volpe’s left buttock. The thief opened his mouth, somewhere between startled and affronted, and a low growl escaped him.

“Again.”

“Not if you like it.”

“Son of a _bitch_.” Volpe chewed on his lower lip, fixated on the sight of Niccolò’s hand between his own thighs. “Let me suck you. Let me love with you, _carissimo_.” His voice lowered, lilting into a purr. “You know how hard I can make you come. You know what I’ll do to your cock, to your body, the things I’ll make you—”

With a sigh, Machiavelli reached for the older man and pushed two fingers into that filthy mouth, smirking when Volpe released a startled little gasp. “When I tell you to stop talking, Gilberto, my love, my own one, you _stop talking_. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

Volpe mumbled, his tongue flicking against Niccolò’s fingers, hips shifting restlessly against the bed. Machiavelli pulled his hand free and wiped his fingers on his lover’s chest, paused to wet a hard nipple and smirk when the thief whined and squirmed.

“Very good.” He got to his feet and removed his coat and boots, stripping down to his tunic and hose. Volpe’s gaze was hungry, raking his form, and the hair on Machiavelli’s neck stood up, a shiver crawling down his spine. Oh, God, what he wouldn’t give to untie the thief, let himself be ravaged, taken. But he had won this, and he was going to enjoy it.

He knelt down and reached beneath the bed, withdrew his last weapon. It had been, of course, Leonardo’s suggestion—wasn’t it always?—but Machiavelli was still a little hesitant, even though he trusted the more experienced man. Straightening, he waved the object  in front of Volpe, arching an eyebrow when the thief stared at it in disbelief.

“Well?”

“Is that…” Volpe released a little laugh. “Is that a _riding crop_? God _damn_ , Niccolò. You are just determined to see us go straight to hell.”

Machiavelli shrugged—Volpe wasn’t wrong, per se—and delicately placed the crop’s leather tongue between Volpe’s thighs, trailing it up and down his perineum. The thief’s laughter hitched into a quiet groan, his legs opening wider. Niccolò turned the crop around, pressed the mushroomed head of the handle against Volpe’s entrance, watched the thief’s cheeks flush and his gaze darken further still.

“Fuck it.”

“What?”

“Take it like you would a man.”

Volpe bit his lower lip. He was already slick and prepared—Machiavelli had diligently seen to that shortly before leaving him to struggle through an unfulfilled arousal—but they had never experimented like this. The younger man stroked Volpe’s lower lip, soothing away the marks left by his teeth.

“You don’t have to, love.” He quirked a grin. “I just thought it might be—”

Volpe rocked his hips, let the handle press against his hole, releasing a weak cry when it pushed through the puckered muscle and slid into his body. Machiavelli’s breath left him in a gust.

“—fun. Fuck.” He watched Volpe move with fascination, his mouth falling open when the handle disappeared. “ _Fuck_. You’re beautiful, you know that?”

“Mn.” Volpe closed his eyes, hips sliding into a slow rhythm, shuddering around the unyielding length in his body. Machiavelli took hold of the neck and angled it down, rubbing the head against the thief’s prostate and smiling when Volpe cried out, legs jerking against the ropes that held him bound.

“Good?”

“Ni-Niccolò—oh, f—ah—” Volpe rolled his head against the pillows, panting harshly with each impossibly deep thrust. “H-Harder—”

“It’s not hard enough already? You certainly are.” Machiavelli rubbed his palm against his lover’s straining cock, chuckling when Volpe keened and bucked into the touch.

“I w-want you— _tesoro_ —”

“Shh.” Niccolò licked delicately at Volpe’s panting lips, refusing him a proper kiss. He grasped the thief’s jaw and forced his mouth open, leaned down to gently massage Volpe’s tongue with his own—and gave the riding crop in his hand an almost vicious twist. Volpe’s cry was silenced by a rough kiss, a hot mesh of tongues and teeth that left him whimpering when his lover drew back, his lips slick and swollen.

“Please—” Shameless frustration bled into his voice when the handle withdrew from his body, leaving him empty and aching. The head rubbed against his hole, teasing him with its absence, and trailed upward, pressed the tenderness behind his testicles. “Stop teasing and fuck me already!”

Machiavelli ignored him, fascinated by the desperate reactions of his lover’s body, by the way his cock and testes clenched and jerked in the agony of delayed release. In a spur of the moment decision, he reached for the bedside table, lifting the half-drained glass of wine—laced with an aphrodisiac bought from a rather unsettling doctor in Rome—and brought it to his mouth, draining it.

“Wh—” Volpe stuttered for breath when Niccolò slid two fingers inside him. “Ah—what are you—”

“I just want to feel what you’re feeling.” He leaned forward, bracing his hand on the wall above the bed and jerking his hips forward, grinding his clothed erection against the inside of Volpe’s thigh, right at the juncture of his leg and his crotch. “When I come inside you, I want to want it the way you do.” He reached down to grab the thief’s ass, groping him roughly. “I want to make you _mine_.”

“I am yours.” Volpe struggled against his bonds, his chest and shoulders heaving, his eyes clouded. “Oh, God, _tesoro_ , I’ve always been yours.”

Niccolò closed his eyes, pulling his fingers from Volpe’s trembling body to place both hands on the wall, still hitching his hips against his lover’s warm flesh, fucking himself against that heat. Volpe rocked his body up to meet him, moaning every time Machiavelli indulged him with a touch—stroked the hollow of his hip, rubbed the weeping slit of his cock.

Oh, there—God, he felt it. The aphrodisiac was fire in his veins, clouding his mind. Niccolò felt light, wanton—every fiber of his being screamed for sex, for touch, for Gilberto’s mouth and hands and cock. He pulled his tunic up and over his head, shaking it off his arm and onto the floor before pulling urgently at the laces of his hose. He sighed with relief when his cock finally sprang free, and didn’t bother disrobing further. He slid his thighs beneath Volpe’s, forcing the older man’s hips up into the air, and planted his hands on the bed beside his lover’s dark spill of hair.

Machiavelli pushed into his beloved’s body, moaned at the tightness, the slick heat around his cock. Volpe’s mouth opened in a soundless cry, soft gasps leaving him with each slow, deep thrust.

“N-Niccolò.” He tipped his head back, cried out when the cock buried in his ass pushed deeper, almost to the point of pain. “Niccolò. _Niccolò_.” He continued to chant his lover’s name under his breath, face turned into the pillow, body straining off the bed.

“Good…” Machiavelli panted, struggling to hold himself up on trembling arms. “So good.” He dropped his weight onto his elbows, close enough that he could mouth a hungry kiss against Volpe’s lips. “My fox. My Gilberto.”

Volpe moaned into another deep kiss, helpless to do anything but lie there and accept, let Machiavelli plunder his mouth and body. Their coupling was deliciously slow, deep, too much and not enough at the same time. Niccolò huffed out a groan, hitching Volpe’s hips a little higher, fascinated by the sight of his cock disappearing into that slick heat. No wonder every cleric on the planet chastised this as a sin. No mortal should be allowed pleasure like this. Niccolò lifted his gaze, shifted his weight onto one elbow so he could caress Volpe’s face, trace a thumb over his panting mouth. God, Gilberto was beautiful. Really, truly beautiful. He leaned down to kiss him again, savor the taste of his tongue. He didn’t care—not about vice or sin or vanity or heaven or hell. Any of it. He just wanted this man. If hell was to be his punishment for loving Gilberto, fine. He’d accept that happily.

“Niccolò—” Volpe came with a stuttered cry, his lower back bowing hard, sticky cum smeared against their stomachs as they moved together. Machiavelli lowered his mouth to the hollow of his lover’s throat, drew in sharp gasps when the thief clenched down on him painfully hard. He thrust in once, twice more, brought his hips flush to Volpe’s ass and spilled inside, pushed in and held steady while he panted and moaned against Gilberto’s warm throat.

It seemed to take ages to come back down. Niccolò hitched his hips backward, releasing a shaky breath at the sensation of those slick walls dragging along his cock. Gilberto was still half-hard, grunting and struggling against his younger lover’s body, trying to grind himself against Machiavelli’s stomach.

“What—” He paused for breath, panting, his violet eyes overbright and wild. “What the _hell_ is in that wine?”

“Don’t know.” Niccolò groaned, grasping his sticky cock in one hand and squeezing, trying to deter the need already building in his gut. “Fuck.”

“You didn’t ask?!”

“I didn’t _care_.”

“Ngh.” Volpe wriggled, moaning when Niccolò gripped his length in his free hand and pumped him. “Untie me.”

Machiavelli quirked an eyebrow. “Unless you use the word, I’m going to assume you don’t mean that.”

Volpe huffed and scowled. “...Do what you will.”

“Mn.” Niccolò brought his hand against Volpe’s ass in a sharp slap, grinning when the thief sucked in a breath. “That's what I thought. You like that, hm? Like being treated like an unruly child?”

“I—”

“Ah, ah. The speaking, Gilberto. I’ve expressly forbidden  it.” He stuck him again, let his hand linger, kneaded the tight muscles, enjoyed the soft, struggling sounds of his lover’s pleasure. Volpe’s erection was filling again, red and inflamed. “A few times now, as I recall.” He made his hand caressing, stroked a thumb over Volpe’s hole, sticky with his cum. “Don’t make me punish you.”

“You don’t frighten me,” Volpe murmured, rocking his ass against Niccolò’s hand, a low breath escaping him when Machiavelli lowered his head and tongued his entrance. “I’ve— _ah!_ —had you too many times, seen you mewling like a little kitten beneath me.”

Machiavelli hummed, thrust his tongue into Volpe’s body and raked his nails down the thief’s thighs. So this was what debauchery tasted like.

“And who taught you how to—mn!—do this, hm?” Volpe panted, struggling to open his legs wider, let his lover get closer. “Who broke you in, taught you how to take a cock, how to please a man with your mouth?”

Niccolò lifted his head, breathing hard, trailed his tongue up between Volpe’s legs to his swollen cock. “You.” He licked Volpe from base to tip, looked up at him from beneath his ashes, relished the way the older man trembled with want. “You did, Gilberto. And what of it? For all of your diligent hard work, you are the one at my mercy.”

“So I am.” Volpe rocked his hips, forced the tip of his cock past Niccolò’s lips, moaned when the younger man sucked him. “So prove yourself, boy.”

Machiavelli’s eyes darkened. He flexed his jaw, took Gilberto in to the hilt and swallowed around him. Volpe groaned and writhed, struggling against the ropes that kept him lashed to the bed. Niccolò waited until he tasted the beginnings of cum at the back of his throat before pulling off, coughing and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. He didn’t bother with oil—he was too desperate. He straddled Volpe’s prone form and inhaled sharply when the thief thrust up, breached his body with several rough heaves of his hips.

“You’re beautiful.” Volpe smiled, accepting the kiss the younger man pressed to his mouth. Niccolò’s hands mapped his chest and shoulders, travelled upward to cup his face while they rocked together. “My beautiful boy.”

Niccolò closed his eyes, wrapped both arms around the thief’s neck and fucked himself on the hard cock buried deep in his body. Every time he and Gilberto were together somehow felt like the first. He remembered every soft touch, every gentle kiss, every searing movement of Volpe’s body on his. That night was burned into every inch of his skin.

“I’m in love with you.” Gilberto’s words were quiet and reverent in his ear. “I love you so dearly, _tesoro_.”

He knew. Niccolò knew. There could be no mistaking that Gilberto loved him, not when his adoration was in every touch and look and whisper. He smiled a little against his lover’s neck, peppered his skin with kisses. Astonishing that Volpe’s words could turn from vulgar and teasing to sweet and loving in mere minutes.

They loved the night away slowly, riding out the heat in their blood. It was nearly midnight by the time Niccolò finally untied the older man, let himself be pinned to the bed and fucked hard into the mattress, until he was crying out, incoherent between pain and pleasure.

It was early morning when he awoke. He lay facedown on the bed, Volpe’s body heavy and warm atop his. Niccolò grunted, wriggling out from beneath the older man, and sat up with some difficulty, hissing at the ache in his ass and lower back.

“Mn.” Volpe rubbed his face against the nearest pillow, grimacing. “What are you doing?”

“I still have to get this done.” Niccolò yawned, staggering to his feet and crossing the room. He picked up his book, sighing and scrubbing a hand through his hair.

The thief groaned and rolled onto his back. “ _Tesoro_. Come back to bed.”

Niccolò acquiesced, settling back down against the pillows and opening the book in his lap. Volpe purred and curled in closer, looping an arm around his waist and resting his head against his lover’s chest.

“What are you reading?”

“Nothing you would find interesting.” Niccolò pressed his mouth to Volpe’s dark hair. “Go to sleep.”

“Don’t leave without waking me up.”

“I won’t. Goodnight, Gilberto.”

The thief huffed, picking a loose thread on Niccolò’s tunic. “So eager to be rid of me. You should rest too, love. You’re tired.”

“That could have something to with coming four times in six hours. Good _night_.”

Volpe’s sigh was nothing short of petulant, but he settled down, tucking his head beneath Niccolò’s chin and trailing kisses along his collar until sleep took him. His closeness made it a touch difficult to read, but Niccolò found he didn’t mind. 


End file.
